


That Most Promising Squire

by lisabounce



Category: Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:09:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisabounce/pseuds/lisabounce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger dogged her footsteps, those last months between her birthday and her Ordeal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Most Promising Squire

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Lauren for fixing this.

Roger dogged Alanna’s footsteps, those last months between her eighteenth birthday and her Ordeal. She was outwardly calm as she made her preparations, settled her affairs and dined with Myles, with Gary and Raoul, with George, as she shared her lord's bed of an evening. (When he wasn't charming the ladies of the court – one might take one's squire but formalities, especially for one such as Jonathan had to be observed. So the long, careful process of courting, of allegiances began, though nothing was brought to fruition, to promises or even to more than a smile and a nod.)

It was Jon's pleasure at night to see Alanna dressed in a gown of red and black silk, set through with deep, rust-orange highlights, hair bound up in a white wimple. He kept it in his rooms and laughed, quietly, at her terror that someone might see them, at her insistence that the doors and windows be warded before she would ever consent to the gown, pulling it off herself, quickly and uncomfortably, shortly thereafter each time. (It wasn't her purple woollen gown, kept carefully in a chest in the city, for those equally terrifying days in the markets of Corus, learning to check her stride, keep her eyes downcast and not strike a townsman down for taking liberties that would never be taken against a youth, even one so pretty as Alan.) She was angry, humiliated, after those evenings, that Jon sometimes seemed only to value her when she was dressed as a lady.

And Roger dogged her footsteps, appearing after weapons practice, in those moments when Alanna saw to Jon's mounts and his weapons or tended Moonlight. In those moments in the libraries where she sought out old tomes of magic and sometimes, romances.

He would settle himself, surcoat and hose and tunic all uncreased and unmarred, in a chair across from her and raise an elegant, impossibly handsome eyebrow at her choice of reading material. “Guy of Fief Cahir? Are you taking notes on how to charm the court ladies, Squire Alan? Lest you be the only the knight to pass his Ordeal without a fair lady's token on his arm?”

She would glare at him, remembering all the reasons she hated the man, even as he would smile. “Delia asked of you again, and I know you're not yet ...committed. She would appreciate a letter or some small token of your favour.” Alanna would squirm uncomfortably in her seat, blushing until her ears burned. Sometimes he would merely sniff at Gilbert of Long Lake's treatise on warding, returning a moment later with a larger tome which he would deposit on the table next to her. “Jerel of Queenscove is somewhat less wrong on this topic. Please attend to his writings. I would so hate to see anything happen to you.”

Other times, Roger would drum Alex back and forward across the training floor, barechested and sweating, before sending Alex away on seeing that Squire Alan lacked a training partner that would, as he murmured, give the lad a decent study. Alanna found the Duke an exhilarating partner: a skilled swordsman, he worked her across the floor till it was all she could do to even remember to hold back sommat, to appear less threatening. He would slap her arms, her flanks with the flat of his blade as they worked, snapping, “Keep your guard up, Squire!” and, “Gods have mercy on you, leaving your side open like that, for no-one else will.” It was hard to hate him at those moments, when he spoke to her only with the concern of a knight for a squire lacking in skill and experience.

 

Alanna served at the Palace functions, carrying trays filled with glass goblets of wine. Roger stopped her, hand on her shoulder and running one finger along her neck. She shivered and started, only to have him steady her and the tray. “Easy lad. I just want to talk to you. I'll make your excuses to their majesties later,” he murmured, taking two goblets of a deep, blood-red wine. She blinked at him, made stupid from the dancing lights, swirls of bright colour in the ladies' dresses and men's tunics and hose and the heat of the room.

Roger gave a bark of laughter and gestured toward the doors opening onto the balconies. (The couples' trysting spots, in warmer weather, Alanna noted.)

She bowed slightly as he handed her one of the two goblets of wine, “Thank you, your Grace,” she replied, settling the tray to one side. It was a cold night, clear and bright, and there would be heavy frost on the ground by morning. Out here, away from the press of heat and light, stiflingly hot court garb was nothing.

Roger simply smiled in return and Alanna shuffled her feat and tugged at the hem of her tunic as Roger stepped closer. “You're a handsome lad, Alan. Jon always did choose the best for himself.”

“I'm sorry, your Grace, but I-”

He smiled. “Alan, have you given any thought to your future? You're the heir apparent's squire but that alone does not a life make.”

Alanna blinked and gulped her wine, stuck for words, even as Roger settled his free hand on her shoulder. “I can be a good friend, Alan, and a better one than Jon, once you've passed your ordeal.”

Alanna simply blinked again. “With respect, your Grace, I serve my knight master and the realm. I should not be planning for a future beyond that before I undertake my Ordeal.”

Roger laughed, low and soft, the hand on her shoulder darting up to trace the line of her cheek. “You mistake me, Squire Alan. I've no interest in you before then. Squires, even those such as yourself, as so terribly ... unfinished.”

And what was she supposed to say? “My plan is to ride off and do daring deeds, for you'll all hate me as a liar in three months?” She shrugged and finished the wine, feeling a light buzz. He was very handsome. “Thank you, you Grace.” And with that Alanna picked up her tray again to resume her neglected post.

“Think on it, Squire Alan. That's all I ask.”

 

She thought about it. It was, in its way, a refreshing honesty, or so Alanna told herself, while Jon lay panting beside her as she tugged off the ugly dress, the rust-orange and red conspiring to make her corpse-pale, while the wimple tangled around her shoulders. She folded the dress neatly, slipping it back into the chest at the back of his dressing room before slipping a nightshirt on and padding barefoot back into her own room to the sound of Jonathan's snoring. It was, at any rate, more honest than bedding a rail-thin and scrawny squire only when she was willing to wear a dress. Except.

Except that it was an honesty extended only to Squire Alan. Jon might make demands but Roger would take her shield. She knew him well enough to know that he'd grant no mercy if he found out.

 

Alanna stared at the Duke, eyes wide and blank. “Walk with me, Squire,” he commanded.

“My cousin tells me you plan to leave the palace when you get your shield. That you want to… do great deeds. What, did that taste of heroism you had as a page stick?”

She contrived to look confused. “I don't know what you mean, your Grace.”

“Luck like that only occurs once in a lifetime. If you must be a hero, there's always the Tusaine and Scanran borders, the bandit patrols in the hill country or you could just go hunting Bazhir. Always a time honoured occupation, especially for younger sons like yourself. Unless...” Roger looked at her carefully. “You want glory, don't you?”

Alanna blinked and tried not to pull a face. She had no interest in hunting Bazhir. “I just want to do good deeds, your Grace.”

“Then you ride the border and hunt bandits. You want something else. You'll be dead inside three months, even with your manservant at your side.” Roger tugged his beard. He was handsome even now, berating her.

“I'm not sure... I'm good!”

“You've had a lifetime's luck already, Squire. Do you want to tempt the gods? I'm told little good comes of that.”

“The gods?” Alanna giggled nervously as Roger ran a hand down the side of her face, thumb stroking her lips.

“I guess I'll just have to ignore my belief that squires aren't yet finished. I know my cousin has and long since. For all his failings, he has good taste.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly, stroking her thigh, fingers skirting just to the edge of her packing.

“Your Grace, this isn't – what if people see? Sir...”

“Oh, for. Alan, I'm not asking to romance you. I don't ...romance... squires. Not even Alex. And you're terribly skinny, even now. But... I can be a good friend, Alan, to those who are willing to... kneel for me.”

Alanna blinked. She had her suspicions on the one hand and, on the other, there was George's voice in her ears, explaining that you learned more from a handsome woman (or, he'd said, raising an eyebrow, man) if you were willing to give a little. She bit her lip in indecision before dropping to her knees and tugging at his belt.

 

She never undressed for him. He'd appear at her shoulder at a function, when she was exhausted and soaked with sweat after training, when she was half drunk on heat and quickly stolen sips of wine, saying simply, “Walk with me, Squire.”

And she would, making her excuses to the other squires, or to the knights, flushing sometimes to Alex's knowing smirk. Roger would lead the way to a empty passageway, a dust filled room. He never touched her, other than to run a finger across her lips and the line of her jaw, or to tangle his hands in her hair, pulling till it hurt while she was on her knees in front of him. Neither of them ever undressed.

It was walking a tightrope, so much to lose if she slipped and she'd wonder afterwards every time, if she had and yet. And yet, he never said a word to indicate that she had.

 

Alex stopped her one afternoon. “Alan!”

“Aye?”

“His Grace,” (and there was only ever one man Alex could be talking of, when he said that) “speaks highly of you these days.”

“Does he?” (George's voice in her ear again, “Never give anything away that you don't have to, lad. Never.”) and she bit back the rest of her response.

“He'll tire of you. He always does.” Alex stroked his beard, a move reminiscent of Roger. “I can also be a good friend, when he tires of you, Alan.”

She stared. “I'd sooner kiss a pig.”

“No,” Alex replied. “You'd sooner bend over for those with royal blood.”

It took all she had to resist the urge to strike him, turn on her heel and walk away.

 

Later, in those weeks before the coronation, Roger sought her out again, looked her over carefully. “You were better as a lad,” he said, once. She glared at him until he, and the suggestions of what she'd never been, were gone.


End file.
